


Joyeux Noël, Porthos

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas fic, Gen, OC death, Post Season 2, probably kind of soppy, the author stubbornly insists that Porthos' given name is actually Isaac despite the unlikeliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is spending Christmas Eve alone, when he receives a letter from an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joyeux Noël, Porthos

**Author's Note:**

> Not 100% in love with this fic but I wanted to do something Christmas-y besides the holiday chapter of _Honest Songs_. Joyeux Noël, all!

From his position against the side of the mess building, buffered against the worst of the wind, Porthos watched the garrison drain slowly. Athos had granted more holiday leave than Treville ever had. This was not, Porthos knew, down to a more lenient style of captaincy, but rather out of deference to the fact that for many among them this would probably prove to be their last Christmas. And so sons had been sent home to mothers, fathers to children, husbands to wives. D’Artagnan, who had not even requested leave, had been sent home just after roll call that morning, to pass Christmas Eve with his lovely new bride.

Athos had tried to give him leave as well. He’d stayed.

It couldn’t be said that last year’s Christmas had been perfect. D’Artagnan, spending his first Christmas without his father, had gotten piteously drunk; they’d spent most of the night watching him sleep it off, eating walnuts and playing cards to pass the time. To boot it had been slushy and foggy-- too warm for snow, too wet for a pleasant chill.

But they’d been _together_ , and so last Christmas seemed liked paradise in comparison to this year’s. This year, d’Artagnan was with Constance. Porthos had expected this, and thought it would not be too terrible to pass a quiet evening just him and Athos-- as it had been so often lately-- until Athos, not ten minutes ago, had announced that he would be attending a war meeting, and _yes, Porthos, we know it’s Christmas, but the guard cannot be let down even for one night--_

And Aramis, of course, was gone.

It wasn’t as though he didn’t have anywhere to go; d’Artagnan had nearly pleaded that he should join him and his wife for _réveillon_. Arnaud, too, had invited him home. Henri and Emile had insisted he join them in their bachelors’ Christmas celebration at the local pub; many friends, in fact, had been especially kind to him of late, probably (no, definitely) because of Aramis’ departure. But Porthos didn’t want to spend Christmas with _friends_. He wanted to spend it with his _best_ friends-- him, d’Artagnan, Athos, and Aramis, like it had been.

Like it should always have been.

A hand on his shoulder forced Porthos from his bog of self-pity; Athos’ pale, somber eyes bore steadily into his own. “I thought I sent you home?” he prompted, tightening his fingers.

Porthos shrugged, putting in only a token effort to seem better than miserable. “Send somebody else. There’s men who need it more.”

“Need it more than a man who’s taken back-to-back missions for five weeks now?”

Porthos shrugged again. To his dismay he managed to shrug off Athos’ hand. “Yeah. Y’know. Someone with kids or somethin’. A wife, at least.”

There was no way in hell that Athos did not know exactly what Porthos was thinking, and they did each other the courtesy of not pretending otherwise. “D’Artagnan invited you to supper. Go.”

“Ath--”

“It’s an order if it needs to be,” Athos said quietly, and Porthos felt himself falter a little in the face of these gentle words. He nodded, and pushed to his feet.

“ _Joyeux Noël_ ,” Porthos murmured, and Athos leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“ _Joyeux Noël_ , Porthos.”

In the end, though, Athos had not actually made it an order-- not to mention there was probably a rule against making such orders anyway-- so rather than head for d’Artagnan’s house, Porthos trudged back to his own apartment. All else aside, he was in fact exhausted. Those five weeks of back-to-back missions had followed hard upon another four weeks, with only two days off in-between-- and this continued as far back as, well. As the day the war had begun. As the day Aramis had left.

There were worse ways to spend Christmas than hiding away in bed and drifting back and forth between sleeping and feeling sorry for oneself. He’d _spent_ Christmases in far worse ways than this, in fact-- just not recently.

At home, Porthos lit the fire, downed a cup of wine, and tugged off his jacket and boots. Bed was looking better every minute. So what he was alone on Christmas Eve, staring down into a new year of an ever-worsening war, with Aramis gone and d’Artagnan and Athos hardly ever around anymore? He had wine. And a bed. And he’d put both to good use.

He’d had another cup of wine and perhaps half an hour’s nap when a knock on the door roused him. For one fleeting instant his mind displayed an image of Aramis’ face. Then it was gone, replaced by a sharp, cutting pain, and Porthos dragged himself out of bed to answer the door for this person who wasn’t Aramis, probably wasn’t even Athos or d’Artagnan. But then who was it?

To his confusion, it was a young girl, perhaps ten or eleven at most, with a coat just a little too big for her, and a letter clutched in her hands. She eyed Porthos shyly.

“ _Joyeux Noël_ ,” Porthos greeted, trying not to look as surly as he felt that evening. “How can I help you, love?”

The girl raised the paper in her hands. “I have a letter for Isaac du Vallon,” she replied. “Are you him?”

It took Porthos a moment to respond, startled as he was by the sound of this name. It was his, sure. But few knew this, and fewer still called him by it; _Porthos_ might have been some family name of Belgarde’s, somewhere along the line, but it was the name his mother had called him too, and so he’d never seen reason to question it. Isaac, the name in his mother’s bible, was a mostly-forgotten thing. In fact he could only think of one place that a letter addressed to such a name could come from.

“Did Sister Belina send you?”

The girl shook her head. “Sister Joan Marie. You’re Isaac?”

“Mm-hm,” Porthos agreed, finally, taking the letter. He gestured for the girl to wait a minute and fetched her the loaf of bread that Serge had baked for him before thanking her and sending her on her way. Then he slowly unfolded the letter. To hear from Sister Belina would have been a welcome holiday treat; but for the missive to instead come from another of the sisters left an uneasy feeling in his belly. He forced himself to read. Then, tossing the letter onto his table, he yanked on his boots and jacket and sprinted out the door.

It was twenty minutes or so to the church, but Porthos covered the distance in ten. Snow was falling lightly, and those left out on the streets of Paris seemed happy to revel in its illusion of peace-- but Porthos paid it no mind. All it was doing for him was lessening the traction of his boots. He slipped a little, once, on the way, and slipped again hurdling up the steps to the apartments that the sisters shared.

With heavy boots and heavier breathing it took less than a moment for him to be noticed. A younger sister, one he didn’t recognize, came to his side questioningly, and Porthos cursed himself for not bringing the letter along as an easy explanation. Instead he stammered out, “S-sister Joan Marie? She s-sent for me?”

“Isaac?”

Porthos whirled around to see the familiar face of Sister Joan Marie, and reached out to her instinctively; she took his hand in hers. “I thank God you could make it,” she murmured, squeezing his fingers. “We’ve been trying to reach you for days now, but your landlord said you were away.”

“Just got back last night,” Porthos huffed. “I-- Sister Belina--”

“Will be delighted to see you,” Joan Marie supplied, gently. Porthos’ knees wobbled just a little. Not too late then, if very nearly.

“Can I-- should we--?”

“Come with me,” Joan Marie ordered, still ever-so-quietly, and Porthos nodded and trailed her down the candlelit hallway and into a small room he’d never taken much note of before. In the room was a fireplace, a chair, and a bed. And in the bed was Sister Belina.

The breath escaped Porthos’ lungs as he took in the countenance of his old friend, thinner and paler than he’d ever thought possible. The door shut behind him as Joan Marie took her leave. He stood there, awkwardly, wanting at least in part to turn right back around.

“Isaac,” Sister Belina rasped out, “where-- on Earth-- are your manners? Aren’t you going-- to wish me-- _Joyeux Noël_?”

“ _Joyeux Noël_ , Sister Belina,” Porthos whispered, voice unsteady to his own ears. “Came as soon as I heard. Said you was--”

“Dying. Yes.”

“Was gonna say _ill_ ,” Porthos bleated.

“Different words-- don’t make a different world,” the old woman scolded. “Now come here-- and let me bless you.”

Timidly Porthos pulled the chair up to the bedside and perched himself at its edge; a moment later, familiar fingers brushed the shape of the cross on his forehead. Belina’s hand trembled, but did not falter. Quiet Latin slipped out from between her lips, and Porthos closed his eyes, feeling all at once eight years old again.

When she was breathing harshly by the time she finished. Porthos peeled his eyes open again, pained to see the woman so weak; he laid her fingers atop hers where they rested on the quilt. “How long have you been ill?”

“Weeks only,” she replied. “God has been-- so good to me, Isaac. Some are ill-- for years.”

“’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” Porthos mumbled, rubbing his thumb over the ridges of her hand. “There’s, eh--”

“A war on. I-- am aware.” Belina smiled tiredly. “Stop looking so gloomy, Isaac. This instant. You-- _always_ owe me a visit. It isn’t your fault-- that I’m dying this time.”

Tears pricked at Porthos’ eyes, and he blinked them away restlessly. “’sthere anythin’ I could do? Anythin’ you’d like?”

“Yes. I would like-- to hear about how-- my dear Isaac has been.”

“You wouldn’t rather we pray together or somethin’?”

“I have done nothing-- but be prayed over-- for weeks,” Belina sighed. “Even _we_ \-- grow bored of it. A story, please. A true one, of course. But nothing too-- bloody.”

“Don’t have many true ones ain’t bloody lately,” Porthos admitted, sniffing back fresh tears.

“Oh? Well, choose-- the best of them, I suppose.”

“I don’t want you worryin’ ‘bout the war, Sister Belina. Hey, do you, eh-- do you remember me tellin’ you ‘bout d’Artagnan? Our new recruit? I think I told you he got his commission, yeah? Well, he’s married. It’s his first Christmas with his new wife.”

“Lovely,” Belina breathed. “I wish them a blessed life together.”

“An’, eh, Athos? You know Athos. He’s a captain, now. Works himself too hard at it, ‘course, but he’s damn good at it too. Oops-- eh, he’s _really_ good at it.”

Belina smiled. “I’ll bet-- he’s _damn_ good at it,” she replied, causing Porthos to chuckle weakly. “But, my child-- I’d like-- to hear about _you_. How have you been?”

“All right,” Porthos replied, automatically. “Tired, y’know. Never in Paris, feels like. But all right.”

“Isaac du Vallon. Don’t you lie-- to a dying woman.”

Porthos laughed again, a little louder this time; in the same instant, one big tear slipped out and fell into his lap. “I’ve been better, Sister. But that ain’t what you wanna be thinkin’ about now.”

“Oh? I’d rather lie here-- and think about death?”

“Don’t you lot kinda do that?”

“Someone who spends her time-- thinking about Heaven-- isn’t doing much here, is she? What comes will come. Now tell me-- what’s wrong, Isaac.”

Porthos’ fingers were still atop Belina’s; he tapped hers tenderly, and she wiggled them in response. “Aramis left. Remember Aramis? He’s-- takin’ his vows, actually. At Douai.”

“And still, this is not about you.”

“It is about me. I’m-- kinda lonely, I guess. Is how I’ve been. D’Artagnan’s married, an’ Athos has got his men to worry ‘bout, an’ Aramis is gone, an’-- an’ you’re dyin’, Sister Belina, an’ I’m not gonna sit here and gripe about all a’that! Oh, God.” Porthos rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Will you let me pray over you? Please?”

“Do you actually-- remember your prayers?”

Porthos snorted miserably and let his head fall forward. “Prob’ly not, no.” He rubbed his eyes again. “It’s Christmas. Why’re you dyin’ at Christmas?”

“Do you have-- a better suggestion?”

He peeked up to see Sister Belina smiling, a little wryly.

“I die-- as we remember-- Christ’s birth. Why mourn such a little death-- compared-- to so much life?”

The sound that escaped Porthos then was beyond pathetic, and made Belina laugh quietly.

“All right. We don’t-- have to talk about-- anything you don’t want to talk about. Your life, my death. But I’m running-- out of breath, Isaac. Just talk. Have you read any nice books? You know I was always-- so proud of your reading.”

Forcing back another wave of tears at these words, and at the memory of Sister Belina, positioning the charcoal in his hand and helping him trace the letters of his name, Porthos summoned every ounce of strength he had left and worked up a semi-cheerful monologue about nothing in particular. He held Belina’s hand between both of his and rubbed it as he spoke. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he realized she’d fallen asleep, but his throat had grown so hoarse that when he called out for the other sisters the sound scraped horribly.

Sister Joan Marie and some of the others hurried in. Sister Belina was still breathing, Porthos could see, but he also knew there wasn’t much time left. He turned to go, but Joan Marie stopped him.

“You should stay,” she said quietly, “if you can.”

Porthos nodded, too tired for more words at this point; he went to stoke the fire as the sisters assembled around Belina’s bed and prayed in fervent whispers. Time passed. And then, with no fanfare, with no more moments to pass between them, Sister Belina took a breath, let it out, and did not take another.

The shock of it jarred Porthos’ body like a punch. Unable to remain there a moment longer, he stumbled from the room, down the hallway, and out into the air beyond. It was nighttime. The snow had not let up in the hours he’d spent inside; it coated the world like a blanket now, reflecting the moonlight, making the world a little less dark than it might have been. But Porthos saw none of the beauty in this. Heaving for air he stumbled around the corner and slumped hard against the stone wall of the church, sliding gracelessly to the ground. Snow melted and seeped into his trousers as he buried his face in his hands. He’d survived worse Christmases, he tried to remind himself, but could not ignore that it had been Sister Belina herself who had seen him through some of these Christmases, and now even she, even she was gone from him--

And then: something so unexpected that he almost thought himself imagining it.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan’s voice exclaimed. “Athos! Yeah, he’s-- he’s over here-- Christ, Porthos, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Porthos peeled his eyes open at the sound of the voice, hardly able to believe that his friend now knelt before him-- but he did. D’Artagnan’s fingertips on his arm were warm and real.

“What the hell happened to you?” d’Artagnan demanded, softly. “We expected you hours ago. Yeah, Athos, he’s here.”

Then another face was beside d’Artagnan’s, peering into his own with tender concern, and Porthos let out a sob, for lack of a better response.

“You left the garrison at one o’clock,” Athos noted. “That was nine hours ago. Your landlord said you’d received a message from this church. Has something happened to Sister Belina?”

Porthos nodded, and forced up through his gravelly throat the first words he’d spoken since Belina had fallen asleep: “she’s dead, Ath.”

Athos touched a hand to his cheek.

“Who’s Sister Belina?” d’Artagnan asked.

“A sister and a caretaker who worked through this church,” Athos replied. “She looked after Porthos when he was young.”

“You lived at a convent, Porthos?”

He let Athos answer for him. “Porthos would never keep in one place like that. But she kept tabs on him. Procured things for him when she was he was in need. She looked after many children, if I recall the stories correctly. But Porthos was her favorite.”

“Porthos is everyone’s favorite,” d’Artagnan replied, with the same air of truth that he’d state the color of the sky. Porthos snorted. He’d hardly felt anyone’s favorite as of late. And if he had been Sister Belina’s, well, that was all well and good but for the fact that she was-- she was--

“She made me s-sleep in the church when it s-snowed--” he stuttered.

“Hey,” d’Artagnan huffed, folding in a little tighter as at last a massive tide of weeping came upon Porthos. He pitched forward, but his friends caught him easily. His body hung between them like a puppet with cut strings, Athos and d’Artagnan bracing him each by half, two shoulders wedged beneath his shoulders, two heads bowed from either side against his head. He cried for Sister Belina. But, were he to be honest with himself, he knew that it wasn’t just for her, that these tears had been building a lot longer, and the fact that he had the full attention of Athos and d’Artagnan was a little embarrassing, but also such a welcome comfort that it only made him sob harder--

D’Artagnan’s hand rubbed circles on his back. Athos’ voice was too low to hear the words beneath the roar of the wind, but soothed him nevertheless. Tears dripped freely into the melting snow between his knees. But the unexpected truth of it was that he actually felt _better_ as the grief poured from him; for maybe the first time that he could remember, the tears brought a sense of comfort and relief.

Snow had gathered on them like statues by the time Porthos stopped. He was shivering badly, as was Athos; as he friends pulled away he saw that d’Artagnan’s ears were bright pink. Porthos blinked up at them both as though seeing them for the first time.

“I told you to meet me at d’Artagnan’s,” Athos scolded softly. “You did not.”

Porthos sniffled, wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I was tired. I went home.” Then something else occurred to him. “You didn’t say meet you there. You just said go.”

Athos frowned lightly. “I believe I said, go help them cook and I’ll be over in time to walk with you to Mass.”

Porthos had not heard any of that. In his misery, he supposed, he hadn’t heard much of anything but a prompt to go away, and he blushed a little now. Though, in the end, it had been for the best, hadn’t it? If he’d been at d’Artagnan’s, if he hadn’t been home, he never would have received the letter from Sister Joan Marie--

Porthos whimpered quietly, a few fresh tears spilling over. For the first time in a long time it felt as though he’d been right where he needed to be. He dug out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

“Up?” d’Artagnan prompted, when he was finished. Porthos nodded. Between d’Artagnan and Athos they hauled him to his feet-- then caught him as he swayed, lightheaded and off-kilter.

“Have you eaten?” Athos murmured. Porthos hadn’t, and shook his head dizzily.

“Let’s get you home, then,” d’Artagnan replied, patting his arm. “Constance will have our heads for getting so wet as it is. And look-- we’re at church! Say a prayer and we’ll say it counts as Mass, eh?”

Aramis, Porthos thought, would have been horrified by the suggestion. But he himself could not bear the thought of looking back at the church just yet, let alone entering it; he agreed, and let his friends lead him away.

At d’Artagnan’s house, d’Artagnan changed his trousers. He lent Athos a spare pair that were too long at the ankles, but Porthos had no choice but to strip his sodden clothes off and wrap up in two blankets to preserve his modesty. “Sorry,” he muttered to Constance, as she smirked at the sight of him.

“Please,” she replied, bending down to kiss him on the cheek where he sat before the fire. “As if I didn’t know from the start I’d be marrying the lot of you. Skipping Mass, then, are we?”

Porthos shrugged, but Athos saved him, coming up behind him and laying his hands on Porthos’ shoulders. “Porthos has had a long day.”

“And he doesn’t have any trousers to put on anyway,” d’Artagnan added helpfully, sticking his head in from the kitchen. Porthos smiled weakly. Athos, bless him, was still standing at his back, holding him gently by the shoulders; it made him feel as though he could breathe again. His eyes felt sticky. His stomach hurt a little, probably from a combination of crying and hunger, but overall he felt-- better. He felt better. And he felt even better still when d’Artagnan came in, smelling like chesnuts, and hugged Porthos against his midsection with one arm before announcing that supper was ready. Porthos leaned up against him, nuzzling his belly.

“Oh, Porthos,” d’Artagnan sighed, quietly. “You’ve had a rough few months, eh? I just hope-- I hope none of it’s-- you know. Only, you already seemed a little down before this happened. I hope it isn’t to do with us.”

Porthos said nothing.

“Because I know, I mean, it hasn’t been easy with Aramis gone. I get that. But the two of us, we’re still here. Right? You realize that?”

Timidly, Porthos nodded. Athos, still at his back, tightened a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” d’Artagnan said, finally. “I’m glad you got to say goodbye, though. Oh, fuck. Some Christmas, eh?” And then he had dropped down to a crouch and was hugging Porthos tightly. Porthos huffed out a sigh and rested his head on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

“Can you eat?” Athos prompted, and Porthos laughed weakly into d’Artagnan’s neck.

“Can always do that,” he replied, and shook himself. “I’m all right,” he said, pulling away from d’Artagnan. “No, I am, really. Just-- shit. Tired of losin’ people, is all.”

In that moment he should have thought of nothing but Sister Belina; instead he muttered, “he didn’t even write for the holidays, y’know? Eight months, it’s been. He’s sent two letters.”

D’Artagnan smiled weakly. “I’ve written him four,” he admitted.

“Seven, at last count,” Athos murmured.

“Lost track,” Porthos bleated, and then the three of them were all hugging tightly, Porthos’ face in d’Artagnan’s chest and Athos’ face in Porthos’ hair; they did not pull apart until the ringing sound of Constance’s laughter.

“I _did_ send my husband in to call you for supper. I see he’s been side-tracked. How unusual.”

D’Artagnan straightened then, but Athos lingered a moment longer, while Porthos wiped his eyes again. “We’re ready. Don’t we look ready?”

“No, you look exhausted and weepy, and Porthos is wearing a toga.”

D’Artagnan burst out laughing. “ _Joyeux Noël_ ,” he chuckled, pecking a kiss onto his wife’s lips. “Our first Christmas didn’t quite follow plan, eh?”

“Did you expect it to?” Constance posed. “Come on. Supper’s really ready; I wasn’t joking.”

Athos’ hand at his elbow, Porthos pushed unsteadily to his feet, suddenly ravenous at the thought of hot food. The four of them settled around the table. Athos, Constance, and Porthos bowed their heads and began to pray, and d’Artagnan, after a short groan, did the same. Normally, it had to be said, Porthos would have agreed with him. But tonight he had so many prayers to say-- prayers for the dead, prayers for the absent, but also prayers of genuine gratitude-- and when he finally lifted his head he saw that the others had done so, seemingly a while ago. Three familiar faces smiled at him warmly.

“Eat,” d’Artagnan prompted, serving him a few slices of goose. “You look ready to fall asleep right there.”

“Maybe a little,” Porthos admitted. “Thanks. _Joyeux Noël_ , everyone.”

“ _Joyeux Noël_ , Porthos,” his friends replied.


End file.
